Find My Soul As I Go Home
by minigalaxies
Summary: Post 10x03. Sam did it. Dean's not a demon anymore. But where do they go from here?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Because apparently the angst in the episode wasn't enough, I had to add more. Originally this was going to be a one-shot, but it got too big, so I decided to split it into two chapters. Here is the first one, to see if anyone finds it interesting enough and want me to continue. So, if you like it, please leave a review. They are more than appreciated!**

**Title is from _Temptation_ by Moby.**

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><p>He needs food. Well, pure cholesterol disguised as food, but food nonetheless. And alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.<p>

That's the extent of his thoughts as he sits behind the wheel of the impala, driving to the nearest diner. He doesn't think of anything else; can't afford to, otherwise he'll either have a breakdown, or smash the car to a pole. And it would be just his luck, when Dean starts caring about his baby again for Sam to wreck it. So. He doesn't think. He just drives.

The cashier at the diner gives him a puzzled look as he orders enough burgers and pies to feed half a dozen people, but remains silent. The girl at the liquor store is more vocal, expressing her concern at the amount of booze he purchases, but Sam simply shrugs and avoids her questioning gaze, handing her the money and exiting the store without waiting for change.

He's extra careful at the ride back to the bunker (he can't think of it as home, not when the first image that comes to his mind at that is his brother chasing him down the hallways of what was supposed to be their one safe place), as he can feel the adrenaline and the fear and the _need _that had kept him up and running the past couple of days slowly fading. And he doesn't have the luxury of crashing now. He needs to make it a bit longer. Just a bit longer, so he can deliver the food to Dean and then he can hide in his room and drink until he forgets these last days completely, (or even the last couple months; that would be ideal).

He makes his way to Dean's room and hates that he feels wary as he raises his hand to knock on the door. Before, he'd have just come in, a witty retort ready to counter Dean's teasing. Before, he wouldn't have felt apprehensive of the person behind the closed door. But before feels like such a long time ago.

Dean answers without looking, his gaze directed at his phone screen, and asks Cas (where is he, by the way? Did he just leave?) what he wants. Sam opens his mouth to say it's him, but all that comes out is a strangled sound, that doesn't resemble any known word. Apparently though, it's enough to get Dean's attention, since his eyes move away from the phone to Sam's face; and he stares. Sam sees surprise, relief, wariness, shame on his brother's face-so many emotions, all gone too quickly for Sam to analyze. Not that he particularly feels up to the task right now.

''Sam?'' Dean says, and it's his voice, the one the demon had used, yet it's different. The word is spoken low, more softly as if Dean wants to show he means no harm. And yeah, if that isn't ironic, Sam doesn't know what is.

Something must show in his face, because Dean averts his gaze, directing it somewhere above Sam's left shoulder.

''Sammy?'' he asks again and Sam can't suppress his flinch at that. If Dean notices, (and he must have, hunters are trained to be completely aware of everything around them, and Dean is nothing if not an excellent hunter), he doesn't mention it, choosing instead to say, ''You okay?''

Sam wants to laugh at that, except he's afraid of how it will sound. So he clears his throat and finally addresses his brother.

''Yeah, 'm fine. Brought you some food, figured you might be hungry.'' He picks the bag up from where he had left it on the floor in order to knock. Being one-handed is really starting to get on his nerves.

Dean looks at the bag as if it's a strange and possibly dangerous creature. Sam pushes it towards him. ''There're burgers and fries in there, pie, y'know, the whole nine.''

His brother's face openly registers shock now. ''Y-you got me pie?'' he asks, staring at the bag as if he could somehow see its contents through it.

''Uh, yeah?'' Sam is getting more and more tired the more time he spends standing there. He wasn't expecting actual conversation. ''Not a problem with it, is there?''

''No, no,'' Dean replies immediately, grabbing the bag and freeing Sam's hand. Sam figures that's it and starts to walk away, to the direction of his own room, when Dean's voice causes him to stop and turn around.

''I… thank you.'' Dean's tone has sincerity written all over it. Sam nods, managing a smile he hopes doesn't look too much like a grimace and then finally, _finally, _he's able to escape to his room.

He closes the door and all but collapses on the bed. He stays still for a couple minutes, fatigue rendering him nearly immobile. He wants to sleep, but he knows he won't be able to, his head too messed up, all kinds of thoughts swirling around, creating chaos.

He did it. He saved his brother.

_You never had a brother. Just an excuse for not manning up._

No. That's not true, that could never be true, no matter what happened. Ruby and Lucifer and Crowley and Gadreel, they could never change that. They're brothers, together.

_You noticed I tried to get as far away from you as possible? _

No.

_Away from your whining, your complaining. _

No. He did it. He managed to save him this time. Dean is human again – except he had been almost human and still wanted to kill him. His mostly-cured brother had come after him with a hammer, had hated him enough to want him dead even without the demon being front and center. And how the hell is he supposed to deal with this?

Whiskey. He needs whiskey. A fuck-ton of it.

It's the only way to shut his thoughts up.

* * *

><p>Two hours later he's nowhere near drunk enough and the only thing he's got for his trouble is a splitting headache and a whole lot of anger coiling in his gut. He thinks maybe it's about time he called it quits and went to sleep. If he's lucky (and when is he ever?), the alcohol he's consumed will be enough to mute his thoughts for the night. Yeah, he should do that.<p>

It's just his aforementioned luck that Dean picks this precise moment to come a-knocking. Only he doesn't knock so much as push the door open and poke his head inside, his expression guarded as if he's not sure what to expect. Sam jerks and his hands flail around in search of a weapon, a knife, a gun, anything that can be used to protect himself from the imminent threat… and then his mind registers that he's thinking of _Dean_ as a threat. He can see how much his reaction hurt his brother, he's looking at Sam with startled, wide eyes (green, not black, never black, never again) and he's put his hands in front of his body, palms up, to indicate he comes in peace. Sam hates seeing Dean having to act like that, but he hates even more that his body's first course of action at the sight of Dean is to go to defense mode. It feels wrong, absolutely wrong, yet he can't find it in him to completely regret it.

''Hey, Sammy,'' Dean says as he comes in, and this time Sam's flinch is more discreet, seeing as his body is already coiled tight. Dean doesn't seem willing to offer anything more to the discussion so Sam heaves a sigh and wills his body to relax, assume a more comfortable position on the mattress.

''What is it, Dean? Do you want something?''

''Just thought I'd check up on you,'' comes the answer, along with a tentative smile, seemingly more cheerful now that Sam no longer looks like a frightened animal in his presence.

''Well, I'm fine,'' Sam answers a bit too quickly, and if there's a slur to his words, it's almost imperceptible.

''Yeah, I can see that,'' Dean drawls, his eyes sweeping across the room, and no doubt taking note of the disheveled state of both the room and its occupant. ''This place smells like a distillery.''

''In case it escaped your notice, I've been pretty busy trying to find my brother and getting him cured from being a freaking demon. So, excuse me if I don't really care what my room smells like right now.''

''Well, at least we know you're still bitchy on booze.''

Sam is really not in the mood for Dean's smartass comments. ''Don't you think you're far from the right person to be criticizing anyone about drinking?'' It's a low blow and they both know it, but Sam needs Dean to not be here at the moment and if he has to stoop to petty jabs, so be it.

Dean's expression hardens for a moment, but he visibly pushes any anger at Sam's comment back and tries again. ''I'm just worried about you, Sam.''

''Really? Coulda fooled me.''

''Look, I know these past few days have been far from ideal-''

''You don't say,'' Sam cuts him off, sarcasm and anger blending together in his words.

''Okay, you're mad, I get it-''

''I'm not mad, Dean. 'M just tired.'' It's not strictly true; Sam is mad, at Dean, at himself, at their fucking rotten luck; but he's also tired. So, so tired.

And he can tell why Dean's here. He's feeling guilty for what he said, what he did, so for once his brother is the one willing to initiate a heart-to-heart. And in any other circumstances Sam would have welcomed it. But not now. Not after everything.

''Can you please get out?'' he asks before Dean has a chance to open his mouth.

''What?'' Dean asks, surprise coloring his tone.

''Get out. Whatever you want, a hunt, a talk, another round through the hallways, it can wait until tomorrow.''

Dean looks completely taken aback now, but he doesn't give up. He's stubborn, Sam will give him that.

''I just wanted to talk.''

''Tomorrow. Now get out.''

''Sam,'' Dean is starting to get angry now, and no, that won't do.

''I said,'' he starts again, making sure his words ring loud and clear, ''get. out. '' And he doesn't know what does it this time, what Dean sees that convinces him, but he finally seems to get it, and he exits the room with one last backwards glance. Sam slumps down on the mattress as he hears the door click shut.

It doesn't take longer than a few minutes of staring at the closed door for his vision to get blurry. That's when the tears come. No heaving sobs, no heart-wrenching cries. Just tears, silently tracing paths down his face. He doesn't have the energy for anything more.

* * *

><p>The ceiling is grey. But not dark grey, more like a soft color, as if it had been mixed with a bit of white before it was painted. There are some hairline cracks along the edge, presumably due to age or earthquakes.<p>

Dean decides he has officially been staring at his bedroom ceiling for way too long.

Except he doesn't know what else to do. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do. Cas is gone, Sam clearly does not want to talk to him (not that Dean can blame him; God the things he had said…), and the demon-well the demon simply didn't care. He misses that, that feeling of freedom, of not being weighed down by guilt about so many terrible things, not having any obligations to anyone or anything. He had asked Sam to let him go, and if he had listened, he would have been better off, without a brother who used every trick in the book to get under his skin, hurt him, make him feel worthless, and then try to kill him for good measure. And he would have done it too. If Cas hadn't arrived at that precise moment to hold him back, his little brother's skull would be splattered on the wall and Dean would have gone on his merry way.

The thought makes him sick.

He misses the demon, yeah. But the thing is, the expression on Sam's face when he said _welcome back, Dean, _it was full of relief, of joy, of love. And Dean will choose that over being void of emotions every time.

Only, he highly doubts Sam would believe him now.

_And what I'm gonna do to you, Sammy. Well, that ain't gonna be mercy either. _

God, he had truly meant it, hadn't he?

How could he do all these things? How could he blame Sammy for Mom's death, accuse him of sucking his life out of him, mock him about never having a brother. These were all things Dean knew his brother deep down feared were true, things Dean would spend his dying breath denying. And yet there he had been, sneering at Sam, dredging up his deepest fears as if they meant nothing.

But he didn't mean it, of course he didn't. Demons lie, everyone knows that. But there's a sneaking doubt inside him, growing more and more the longer he considers this. The demon was part of Dean, knew Dean's inner thoughts and feelings, even if he chose to ignore them for the most part. So, does this mean that there is a part of Dean that really believes what he had said? That hates his brother, that wants to kill him? Dean refuses to believe that, completely and vehemently, but the tendrils of doubt are still there and it terrifies him.

He needs to do something. Anything to distract him. Maybe take the impala for a drive? Then he remembers the state it was in and his offhand comment that it was just a car and he cringes. _I'm sorry, baby. _

He gets up, determined to at least set things right with his car since his brother is not an option. However, as he passes in front of Sam's room he pauses. Part of him wants to go in, make sure Sammy is okay, another part viciously reminds him he's probably the last person Sam wants to see right now.

But. Sam is his weak spot. He always has been, and so it feels like he has no choice when he slowly pushes the door open and peers inside.

The light is still on and the floor is decorated with several liquor bottles, though thankfully, not all of them are empty. And in the middle of the bed, a Sasquatch-shaped brother who has fallen asleep.

Dean's eyes soften as they take in the -finally relaxed- form of his little brother. He's lying on his stomach, which can't be the most comfortable-wait.

Lying on his stomach means his injured arm is pinned down by the rest of his body. Shit.

Dean rushes to Sam's side, his hand gentle but insistent as he tries his best to maneuver Sam to his back and free his arm without waking him. It's a slow process, Dean freezing any time Sam makes a sound in his sleep, but eventually it's done. Dean reaches over and readjusts the sling so it supports the arm fully, and all the while he wonders when Sam got hurt, how and who did this to him. Can't stop thinking he should've been there. If not to prevent the injury, then to help in the aftermath, administer first-aid, stitch up a wound if necessary. Winchesters are used to taking care of their injuries themselves, without involving hospitals. How bad had it been, that Sam had had to get a sling for it, and it still hadn't healed? And how could Dean not have been there?

He feels a lump rise in his throat and he suppresses it quickly. Casting one last glance at Sam to make sure he's comfortable, he leaves the room and heads outside, determined to work on his car until it's nice and shiny again. He loses track of time, the only thought on his mind as he stumbles back inside after several hours being his bed. He doesn't remember falling asleep, or having any dreams, but when he wakes up there are tear tracks on his face and the pillow is wet where he had laid his head.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: And the second chapter is here. Hope you guys like it. Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to follow, favorite and review this story; it really means a lot to me!**

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><p>It's two days before they speak again (that is, more than exchanging a couple words if they happen to come across each other), and considering how it ends up, Dean would rather they had kept not really ignoring each other but doing a pretty bang-up job at it in reality.<p>

Sam's in the kitchen when Dean comes in looking for a beer, his shirt wet and beads of sweat forming on his forehead. The demon might be gone now, but the Mark of Cain is still there and determined to not let him forget it. And since going out and killing people isn't exactly an option he's comfortable with anymore, he's had to compensate by shooting targets and beating the crap out of punching bags. It's not all that satisfying, honestly, but he's also out of options, so it will have to do.

There's a nice, if a bit strange, smell wafting around the kitchen and after a second of sniffing, he identifies its source as being the large pot currently boiling. He doesn't know what is inside; Sam has taken over dinner duty and Dean _would_ complain about all that healthy crap his brother is undoubtedly determined to serve, but that would require having an actual conversation. And he kind of doesn't know how to do that now.

His goal was to come in, grab a beer, and get out. Pretty simple, except for the fact that there's a Sam-shaped barrier between him and the fridge. And he hasn't moved, which means Sam didn't hear him approach (or, much more likely, he did but elected to ignore him. And it hurts, don't get him wrong. It's just that, compared to way Sam would go rigid and defensive every time he was in the same room with his brother, Dean will take the ignoring-him-but-being-at-ease part gladly).

He briefly considers several awkward – and highly entertaining for Sam, if this was any other time – ways to open the fridge without making his presence known, but quickly realizes it's not possible. So. Talking it is.

''Sam?''

The only response he gets is Sam turning his head, looking at him and turning back again, all without moving an inch. Damn.

''Sam? You're kinda blocking the way here,'' he tries again, glad his voice doesn't betray the nervousness he feels inside. He shouldn't feel like talking to his brother is one of the most nerve-wracking things he's ever had to do. Then again, he also shouldn't have tried to kill him.

Okay. Not thinking about this now.

This time Sam moves, but he still does his best performance of being mute and Dean starts to get seriously uncomfortable. He should leave really, now that he's got what he came for, but then, he's never been accused of doing the smart thing when it comes to Sammy.

So he stays where he is and says to Sam's back; or his side really, ''So, what's for dinner, Sammy?'' in a jovial tone he really hopes doesn't sound forced.

He notices his brother's hold on the counter become more intense as he mumbles something unintelligible.

''Huh? Didn't really catch that.'' The jovial tone continues. Sam, on the other hand, remains silent.

''Sammy?''

It's this word that seems to bring Sam back to the land of the talking. He whirls around, his face set in a blank expression that Dean instantly hates, his whole posture rigid.

''Maybe, maybe you could not…'' he trails off, his words soft and hesitant, in complete contrast to his body language. Dean doesn't prompt him to continue, giving him time while his brain runs through numerous possible ends to that sentence, the most prominent being _maybe you could not be here, in the bunker, with me anymore. _And he really wouldn't blame him for it.

''Maybe you shouldn't call me that anymore.''

''Call you what?'' Dean asks, confusion evident in his voice.

Sam's voice is still hesitant but more certain now.

''Sammy,'' he says and Dean just stares.

Sammy? He doesn't want Dean to call him Sammy? Of all the things Dean expected this is certainly the last. He finds it hard to believe that after everything (and with them, everything encompasses a whole fucking load of stuff) Sam would still think being called Sammy is not grown-up enough.

_Sammy, let me go._

_Oh, thanks, Sammy, I needed that. _

_And what I'm gonna do to you, Sammy, well that ain't gonna be mercy either. _

_Sammy, you know I hate shots. _

_Don't be so full of yourself, Sammy. _

_Come on, Sammy! Don't you wanna hang out with your big brother?_

_Sammy!_

_Isn't that right, Sammy?_

_Come on, Sammy. Let's have a beer, talk about it. I'm tired of playing. Let's finish this game!_

Fuck. _Fuck. _

Dean opens his mouth, but no words come out. What is he supposed to say to that, what _can _he say? He took a childhood nickname, a word meant to convey love and affection, and turned it into something that makes his brother cringe every time he hears it.

How can he ever say it again?

''Yeah, okay,'' he says finally, even though all he wants to do is find a way to apologize, beg Sam for forgiveness, tell him that everything will be okay. Except that would be a lie.

He watches Sam as he visibly relaxes, though his face doesn't change much, and he knows he has to leave before the full ramifications of what's happened crash on to him. He doesn't know what he's going to do then.

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><p>It's two days since he asked Dean to not call him Sammy again, bringing the grand total to four days of almost-but-not-really-complete silence between them. And Sam doesn't know if he wants to break it or not. Part of him wants to just say fuck it, forget it all and restore his relationship with his brother, because, God, he misses him so much. But then there's the other part, smaller but by no means unimportant, that remembers with a clarity he hates, what Dean did while he was a demon, how he taunted him and snapped at him and chased him with a hammer, and he thinks things will never be normal again.<p>

The thought alone makes him miserable, so he tries to push this sort of thinking to the back of his brain, replace it with other stuff. Problem is, he's got so many things he'd rather not think about, his mind's a bit cluttered. So inevitably, it rises to the surface, sooner or later, and the cycle begins all over again.

Most times he thinks he could finish it. He _should _finish it; there is only so much time they can go on like this, and knowing their luck, another world-wide apocalyptic event could happen in the meantime and this whole thing would only get worse. So, yeah. Intellectually, he knows he should. There's a lot of stuff he knows. The problem lies with doing something about it.

If he's completely honest with himself (and he hasn't really been, not about everything, not for a long time), he's not all that scared of Dean himself – years and years of regarding him as a protector, someone he can trust cannot be undone so easily – but of Dean's words. Or the demon's words. Or Dean's because his brother wasn't possessed, after all. There wasn't someone else inside him, when he told Sam he never had a brother, accused him for Mom's death and for sucking the life out of him, said he was tired of babysitting him and wanted to get as far away from him as possible.

The things is, he knows Dean didn't mean any of these things. He knows his brother loves him and would do anything for him, sometimes to the point where it causes more harm than good. But it's come to a point where it's not always easy to find the distinction, where sometimes the voice of his brother and the demon blend together, creating a mess in his head that he can't escape. That's when the worst thought of all comes out to play.

What if Dean did mean the things he said? What if he does believe them, deep down, and just kept it hidden until the demon threw them to his face just cause he didn't care?

He really needs to stop thinking.

Cas has come by, a couple of times. He talks to both of them, and Sam is torn between wanting to know what he and Dean talk about and being glad he has no idea. He never asks and the angel never offers any information. He's quick to tell him how Dean is (because Sam can't not ask), and every time he makes valiant efforts to convince Sam to talk to his brother. Sam listens to him, replies when necessary and even snaps at him when he feels particularly crappy, but Cas never leaves for good, never fails to turn up again with a smile and a positive attitude; and a stiff upper lip in anything that has to do with what he's been up to, claiming the Winchesters have other things to worry about. Sam doesn't believe him for a second, but Cas looks good and he hasn't heard anything bad going on in the angel community, so he doesn't press the issue. Not exactly eager to deal with any angel problems at the moment.

He doesn't have dreams, at least. He's incredibly grateful for that, even if it might be because he barely gets four hours of sleep every night. He doesn't even do anything, just lies in bed and looks around in the dark, yet his brain seems to have an aversion to shutting up and falling asleep if it hasn't been at least three hours since he lay down.

He has to talk to Dean. He doesn't quite know how to.

He just misses his big brother.

* * *

><p>It's five days now and he can't take it anymore. Sam is sitting at the table next to him, deep in research about the mark in a brand new book he found in the dusty back of a library shelf (and okay, brand new might not be the most accurate description), a beer slowly collecting moisture on the wooden surface, and Dean can't take it anymore.<p>

The silence, the guilt, the furtive looks, the awful memories, the unbearable sense of wrongness that has settled over the bunker the past few days; he can't take it. He has to do something. So he says the only thing he can think of.

''You can leave, you know.''

Sam raises his eyes from the faintly yellow pages he's been studying and directs them at Dean, confusion shining in them. ''What?''

''You can leave,'' Dean repeats. ''You don't have to stay here, I'm fine now, no more demon, so you don't have to stay.''

Sam's eyes narrow and the confusion is replaced by disbelief. ''You're kicking me out?''

''What? No,'' Dean says quickly, his surprise mirroring Sam's. ''I'm just saying there's no reason for you to be here for me anymore, I'm fine,'' and that's a lie if he's ever told one, ''so, y'know, you're free now. You did your part, you cured me, so you're, you know, free.'' He makes a vague hand motion that's supposed to represent Sam's freedom and watches as his brother takes in his words.

Sam's face is like a canvas of emotions. Surprise, disbelief, incomprehension followed by anger and determination.

''There's no reason?'' he asks in a voice that sounds calm, but Dean knows his brother too well to believe it. ''Are you kidding me?'' There's anger hiding behind that calm façade.

It's Dean's turn to be surprised at the vehement reaction his words get. He doesn't want Sam to leave, really, of course he doesn't, but he figures he's been selfish enough. He's not going to be the one to walk away this time, he still needs to figure out the mark and the bunker is the ideal place to do it. But Sam, he doesn't have to be subjected to that.

''Samm-Sam, I know you think you need to stay here, make sure I stay human or whatever, but I'm telling you, you don't have to. You can leave and no one would blame you, I sure as hell wouldn't. The things I said… Anyway, my point is, you can go live your life without being weighed down by someone who's treated you like crap. You're free.'' He closes his eyes for a second after he's done talking, because the thought of Sam leaving him, of being here alone all day, every day, with his thoughts as his only companion; it hurts. A lot. But he has to do it, for Sam.

When he opens his eyes again, it's to find Sam looking at him like he's a complete and utter idiot. A sentiment he doesn't hesitate to voice either.

''Are you hearing yourself right now?'' Sam says, incredulous. ''Even if I wanted to leave, since when do I need your permission? You certainly haven't asked for mine every time you decided we're better apart.'' And that stings, but Dean can't refute it.

''But that doesn't matter, because _I don't want to leave. _How could you think that?'' He doesn't give Dean the chance to speak before he goes on. ''Yes, what happened sucks, a lot, and I won't pretend it hasn't affected me, because it has. But trust me when I say this, Dean, there is nothing, _nothing_ you could do that would make want to leave.''

''Why? Why would you-''

''Why?'' Sam cuts him off, a small laugh escaping him. ''Because you're my brother. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. And there's nothing that could make me leave you.''

Sam is staring at him as the last words leave his mouth, looking simultaneously grown-up and wise, and five-years-old, looking with wide eyes to his big brother to make everything better. And Dean, he doesn't think about what he does next, he doesn't plan it. He just moves.

He moves until he's close enough and then spreads his hands wide and engulfs Sam in the tightest hug he's ever given in recent memory. Sam starts but it doesn't last, he has his arms around Dean immediately, squeezing back just as hard.

There used to be a little boy, long ago, who worshiped the ground his brother walked on. Who trusted him completely and undoubtedly. Who, one summer, could be seen walking around with a t-shirt too big for him, but refusing to take it off, a shirt, which, if anyone paid any attention, could easily ascertain belonged to the older brother. There used to be a boy who adamantly refused to part with the shirt for the entirety of summer, insisting that wearing it made him feel big and strong and good, just like his big brother. And Dean, almost thirty years later, his arms around that same boy who is not so little anymore, thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can be big and strong and good again.

He isn't aware of how much time passes, or when he closed his eyes, only that he opens them as Sam pulls away gently, his expression the fondest Dean can remember in a long time.

''I guess this means you're staying then, huh?'' he says, trying for humor but ending halfway between questioning and desperate. Sam just laughs, shaking his head, and Dean feels overwhelmed with something that can only be described as joy.

''Sammy,'' he starts to say and promptly stops, inwardly cursing himself for doing the one thing Sam had asked him not to, just one thing after all he-

''It's okay,'' Sam says and his voice is sincere, the smile seemingly etched on his face. ''This time it's okay.''

Dean can't help but smile back, wider and wider, until they're both grinning at each other like a pair of idiots.

''You do realize this is the chick-flick moment to end all others, don't you?'' Sammy says after a while, his tone light and promising more teasing in the future.

''Shut up,'' Dean shoots back without heat, because he simply doesn't care right now. But he can't let his brother think he got away with it. ''Bitch.''

''Jerk.''


End file.
